The Retreat from Moscow

Like Napoleon, my leaving of Moscow was a bloody mess (in the figurative sense).

A simple burger with friends (the expats - Ian, Grant and David, Steve [in spirit]) and a fleeting mention of departing was followed by a melancholy potluck with champansky and vodka and bean dip (yes, bean dip - Vince's, and it was delicious). All was followed by more drink. Afterall, I had a 3am bus to catch - why go to bed?

My bags (somewhat) packed, I was in my dorm room throwing things in places then moving places. People would wander in, interrupting my hurry for a hug and some fond words, and then more fury. My thoughts: "This bag feels too heavy - why don't we have a scale?" or "Who can I give these jeans to? Maxim?"

I was the last on the bus, due to a painful goodbye as a drunken Maxim wandered into my room to start a heart-to-heart 15 minutes before I had to be rushed to the airport. "Really? NOW!" were the thoughts in my head; but, that cattiness was inappropriate. There was a kind of brotherly connection between me and Maxim, and to simply brush him off would have been cruel. So, I stop, listen, and can't help but look at the exquisite half-naked young man in my room. I couldn't really make out what his deal was, specifically; however, generally: he was scared. A 22 year old kid has left everyone near and dear to come to Moscow to do a show. I was one the first people he met, so there was a connection - that I had to cut short due to buses and planes.

So I rush to the bus - the last one on the bus - with my things (I think I collected everything ... but it doesn't matter). As the dark morning Moscow skyline passsed by my window, it was a bitter-sweet goodbye. I didn't know I had fallen for the city as hard as I had ... however, I had - thanks to amazing ex-pats, angels, and self-assurance.

It would have been so easy to stay in my room and simply shuttle myself from classroom to theatre and then back. I didn't. I took myself out, several nights, on my own to see what Moscow is like. The hulking, soot-ridden grey city of blonde haired scowls is not unlike New York. It's grittier, its corruption is more apparent, but its spirit is no different than New York or Chicago. I learned this through solitary evenings at bars and afternoons in restaurants hving lunch. Moscow is a city like any other.

Until you get the airport.

The tuna-can with windows that we were shuttled to has the beauty of a sewage refinery. Its counter clerk was equally pleasant. My two bags were overweight, and after chucking paper, ALL of my Russian (language class) notes (my biggest regret) and my winter boots, I was able to pass one bag through and pay a mere 100 Euros to get the other on the plane. Ugh.

It was not gracious; but, I survived. Weighed down with souvenirs for many members of my family (especially the 4 children adopted from Russia), I boarded my plane and left for the West.

This blog is not about my travails in Western Europe (which had an element of labor to them). This blog is about Russia. This blog is about to end. While this is nowhere near my last post (which will come once my ARTicles are submitted, signaling (for me) the official end of my first year), it is a closing post that is written with some perspective.

I sit here, in the frontroom of my Cambridge apartment with the Stanley Cup finals on the plasms screen (GO HAWKS), typing this post. It comes after I debriefed in Barcelona (and was pick-pocketed), cruised through Madrid, found romance in Paris, and existed in Zurich. In short, I have been alive for the past few weeks, and that life has put my three months in Russia in perspective.

March - May 25 of this past year have not been my most glorious. They have been difficult, and I have learned from them. The knowledge has not been technical, but personal. How do you deal with people you don't particularly like, but with whom you must co-exist and work? How do you deal with moral breaches? How much of your defenses do you let down, and let others dictate your schedule for you? Good questions and good answers.